The Attic Room: A psychological thriller (9 page)

She knew she was being naïve, hoping it could still come
back negative, but you never knew. People won at the lottery every week, didn’t
they?

She could hear the sympathy in David Mallony’s voice.

‘You’ll be the first to know when it comes. But Nina, don’t
get your hopes up.’

Nina turned back to the photos. It was difficult not to
hope. Nobody wanted a monster for their father.

With no great enthusiasm she lifted a handful of photos and
started to divide them into ‘with’ and ‘without’ people piles. There were such
a lot of landscapes here, country pictures with farm buildings, why on earth
would anyone photograph bare fields with the odd stumpy tree, and – shit!

It was her, her and Mum and John Moore, sitting on a bench,
in fact it looked like one of the benches on the other side of the road here,
by the river. Hell, yes, that was Claire, her hair dark and curly and a
strangely subdued little smile on her face. It wasn’t an expression Nina could
remember seeing before. Claire was holding little Nina, a blonde child with
solemn features and a doll clutched in her arms. She couldn’t have been more than
about two, here.

Hot tears burned in Nina’s eyes. She didn’t need the test
result now. This photo was telling her loud and clear that those old records
she hadn’t wanted to believe were telling the truth all along; John Moore was
her father. She could even remember that doll – Susie, its name was, she’d
taken it to Edinburgh and then to Arran, played with it for years.

She scrabbled wildly in the box and soon had a row of family
photos in front of her. Her and Mum, her and the boy she’d already seen in a
couple of pictures, her and… her father…

Nina stared at the three photos where she and John Moore
were pictured. A solemn child, a smiling, strutting man. Did the child in those
photos really look afraid and unhappy, or was she projecting that because she
knew about the paedophilia? Nausea welled up, almost choking her; she had to
breathe through her mouth for a few moments. She still didn’t know if he’d been
an active paedophile or had ‘merely’ collected vile pictures. And – if he had
abused other children, he could have abused her too. It was the blackest
thought of all. There was no evidence of it and she had no memories, but… she’d
been crying on the top floor… On the other hand, according to David, the images
on John Moore’s computer were of young boys, and paedophiles were attracted to
either girls or boys but not both – weren’t they? She didn’t know enough about
it, that was the problem. But it wasn’t impossible that she’d been abused. Dear
God, it wasn’t impossible.

Forcing herself to remain calm, Nina went to fetch more
coffee. It’s better to find out the truth, she told herself. If she knew the
worst then she could deal with it and get on with her life. But how could she
possibly find out what had happened all those years ago? The hazy memory of her
crying in the attic room wasn’t enough.

She went back and stood in front of the ‘family’ photos. If
she hadn’t known about the paedophilia the thought wouldn’t have entered her
head. There were a couple of wedding snaps she hadn’t seen before, Claire and
John Moore, and oh, Grandma Lily and Grandpa Bill. A lump grew in Nina’s throat
as she saw how slim Claire was in those days before motherhood, and how happy
she looked, like a little girl playing at weddings – and… what was making her
uneasy about these photos? Other people were there too, a young woman with a
toddler and another man, as well as several older people in various
combinations. Two of them might be her other grandparents. Nina stared at the
photos, then shrugged and laid them down. Hopefully she could get in touch with
those distant cousins Sam had turned up; they might be able to help. Or would
they turn out to be as horrible as John Moore?

Her phone rang and she grabbed it. Sam’s voice brought
normality back into what had already become a bad day. She told him about the
photos and the list of names.

‘Well, I certainly think it’s worth trying to find them,’ he
said. ‘The ones called Moore must be relatives. And Nina, remember – your
mother was looking out for you.’

Nina blinked unhappily. It was true, but the fact remained
that Claire’s silence had allowed John Moore to abuse heaven knows how many
kids after the two of them left. It was very, very difficult to get her head
round that, and it didn’t sound like Claire, either. Something monumental must
have happened to make her behave like that. Nina put the thought to the side
for the moment and arranged with Sam to have lunch together the following day.

Ending the call, she switched her phone right off. She would
waken Naomi and take her down to London for the day. They would do some sights,
go shopping, maybe go to a show if anything was available. Life had been
depressing for long enough; a day out with her daughter was exactly what they
both needed.

And what a pity it was that the whole bloody mess would
still be here when they got back.

Friday 21st July

Nina took one look at the cheap envelope lying face down on
the mat and ran to the kitchen for a knife. Shit, oh shit, this was going to be
another horrible letter. Crouching behind the front door and praying Naomi
wouldn’t choose today to get up early, she flipped the envelope over.

Oh. Her own name and this address were clearly handwritten,
and unlike Monday’s letter, this one had come by post. Maybe it wasn’t anonymous.
She wiped away the sweat that had broken out on her brow.

Still squatting by the door mat, she considered whether or
not to open the letter. There was no one she could think of who would be
writing to her here. It wasn’t Beth’s or Tim’s handwriting, and apart from Alan
in South Africa, no one else who might conceivably write to her knew she was
here. Nina rose to her feet and trotted into the kitchen for her phone. A quick
call to the police might be best.

Sabine Jameson was dubious. ‘Hm. It doesn’t sound like an
anonymous letter. Hold the envelope by one corner, and open it with a knife.
Then use the knife to open out the letter,’ she said. ‘Call me back when you’ve
read it.’

Nina sat down at the photos table to open the letter,
keeping an ear open for Naomi. No way did she want her child any more involved
in anonymous letters and paedophilia than she was already. Fortunately, Naomi
was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted tourist. They’d had a great day out
yesterday, with lunch in a crêperie, a visit to Greenwich and then a boat trip
back to the centre. To round off the day they went to an outdoor ‘oldies’
cinema and watched ‘E.T.’ for the zillionth time, with the added attraction
that they were out there under real stars themselves.

As always, the end of the film brought tears to Nina’s eyes.
A lost little creature going home. It brought back to her how very much she
wanted to be back home, even though without Claire, home was a different place.
They would have to deal with the change in the old farmhouse, remember the past
with love and move on with joy, as Claire would have wished. A lot of
reorganising lay ahead on the Isle of Arran, and John Moore’s hard cash would
undoubtedly make things easier.

Nina blinked unhappily. ‘We’ll go back early next week.’ She
spoke aloud, using the paper knife from the desk to assist the kitchen knife.
Sam would be able to carry on here without her physical presence.

It wasn’t easy to get the single sheet of paper from the
envelope without touching it, but at last she managed to ease it out. The same
handwriting was on the letter, and Nina spread the sheet with the knives, her
heart sinking as she read.

Dear Nina Moore,

Please forgive me for writing to you like this, but I know
you recently inherited a large fortune. Please consider that there are people
less fortunate than you. My husband was in an accident in May, and he no longer
earns a living wage. £500 would mean nothing to you and everything to us. After
all, it’s not your money, is it, you did nothing to earn it. Please, Nina, be
generous and help a family in need.

Yours sincerely…

The signature was illegible, though the address wasn’t, Nina
noticed wryly. Did this person imagine she was going to stick £500 in an
envelope and send it off just like that? No way. And who the hell could it be
from? No one knew about John Moore dying and leaving her a fortune… but no…
that wasn’t quite true. The staff at the hospice and the crematorium would know
he was rich, and anyone could have seen the death announcement in the paper. It
might even be from someone who’d visited the hospice, or delivered something…
Nina sniffed, then looked at the letter again.

In a way it was true, what the letter writer said. She could
easily spare £500 now. But there would be more begging letters; she couldn’t
give money to everyone who asked for it and she didn’t want to, either. Nina
folded the letter, thinking.

Maybe she should make one big donation, to a children’s
charity, for instance. That way she would be doing good and also showing Naomi
that helping people was the natural thing to do. They could choose a charity
together – Naomi would enjoy doing some research on the internet. Or they could
look into one of those sponsorship arrangements, maybe support a child in
India. Yes, good idea. But now she’d better phone Sabine Jameson and tell her
it was just a begging letter. The first, but probably not the last.

She was making the connection when her fingers slowed and a
frown came over her face. There was something vaguely familiar about the
language on that letter…

‘After all, it’s not your money, is it, you did nothing to
earn it.’

Wasn’t that very similar to what the anonymous caller said
on the phone?

Sabine Jameson listened to her fears. ‘I’ll tell the boss
when he gets in, but there isn’t much to go on there. We’ll have a look at it
later. Oh – Nina – your test result’s back. Ready for it?’

Nina gripped her phone. ‘Positive, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry. I know you were hoping for a negative result.’

Nina broke the connection and stood fighting disappointment.
The last vestige of hope was gone; John Moore was her father. Well, there was
nothing she could do about that. She wasn’t responsible for his crimes. What
she needed to do now was find out enough about the past to give herself peace
of mind, and the best way to do that was to sort through these wretched photos.

‘Mum! I’ve had cornflakes, can I email Jay?’

Nina jumped, then went to hug Naomi. ‘Heavens, you got up
quietly! Yes, of course. You can have an hour online, shoot bubbles or something
after your email, and by that time I’ll be finished with the photos and we’ll
think of something fun to do when Sam arrives.’

Naomi raced upstairs to clean her teeth, and Nina went back
to work. By half past eleven she had another row of ‘people’ on the table. As
well as the family with the little boy she found four photos of the same little
boy with some older people. On two of them he was sitting on a middle-aged
women’s knee, looking much happier than on the other photos. The woman was
smiling too; maybe she was his grandmother. Which could well make her Nina’s
grandmother too, or an aunt. Was this woman one of the people on the list?
Abandoning the photos, Nina pulled out the address list and scanned it again.
She should see if she could find any current phone numbers for these Moores.

‘Anything interesting?’

Nina jumped for the second time that morning. Sam had come
into the room without her hearing. This must be her day for being crept up on;
she should watch her back. She grinned at Sam. ‘Hello! How did you get in?’

‘I arrived at the front door as Naomi was coming downstairs
and she saw me through the glass,’ he said, joining her at the table. ‘And
guess what, she’s speaking to me today. She said, ‘Mum’s miles deep in those
boring old photos again’ and went into the study. What have you found?’

Nina showed him the letter and pointed out the similarity to
the threatening phone call. He grimaced, tapping his fingers on the table.

‘Oh Nina, I don’t like it. Even if this is a coincidence, it
means that every begging letter you’ll be wondering about a possible
connection.’

‘I know. I want to get away from here asap, Sam. All this
hassle isn’t worth it; I need to get on with my life. And the paternity test
result was positive, by the way.’

He grimaced again. ‘I’m sorry. I have all the paperwork
ready for you to sign so there’s nothing to stop you going home. We can
continue with the business stuff by e-mail and phone. And unfortunately I’m
away myself for a few days at the beginning of the week; I have to see a client
in Devon. It was arranged three weeks ago and I can’t get out of it.’

Nina stood straighter. ‘That settles it. We’ll leave on
Monday.’

Happier now that the decision had been made, she showed Sam
the ‘people’ photos.

‘Wow. You’re incredibly like your mother, aren’t you?’ he
said, picking up a photo showing a young-looking Claire with her new husband.

Nina went to look over his shoulder. A very young-looking
Claire… The thought that had hovered over her brain the other day came sharply
and horribly into focus.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Mum looks about thirteen here. Do you
think – oh Christ.’

The thought was appalling. A paedophile would enjoy having a
wife who looked so much younger than she was. Dear God no.

Sam put the photos down. ‘Nina, don’t go there,’ he said in
a low voice. ‘They’re both dead, it’s over. We only have to sort out what’s
relevant to you.’

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a magnifying glass.

‘I borrowed this from our secretary. A vital piece of
secretarial equipment when you have to work with old documents. She has two so
you can hang on to it for a few days.’

He was right, Nina knew. John Moore’s actions were nothing
to do with her. She pored over the photos with the glass, but although it made
the facial expressions clearer, it didn’t help identify the people. Definitely,
it was time to leave the winding up of her father’s estate to the lawyers, and
go home and enjoy the rest of the summer on beautiful Arran.

‘Nina, look.’ Sam had lifted the list of names. He pointed
to one about halfway down. ‘Emily Moore. And the address is in Biddenham, that’s
a village a couple of miles outside Bedford. Maybe she still lives there.’

Nina stared at the list. Emily Moore, 15 Long Meadow Lane,
Biddenham.

‘Wow. I hadn’t realised that. Let’s try the phone number.’

The number was unobtainable, though, and Emily Moore didn’t
figure in the phone book either.

‘We could drive by and have a look,’ suggested Nina. ‘Even
if Emily’s not there anymore, one of the neighbours might know something.’

Sam pulled out his car key. ‘Good idea. Let’s go.’

‘This is boring. You said we would do something fun,’ said
Naomi as Sam drove along the main road towards Biddenham.

Nina thought swiftly. Compared to the day before, an outing
to find someone they didn’t know must be boring to a ten-year-old, but she wasn’t
prepared to let Naomi stay all alone in John Moore’s house when there were
unknown weirdos at large writing revolting letters and making funny phone
calls. Nina twisted round in her seat and made a face at her daughter.

‘I know, sweetie, but look at it this way. You can count
your blood relations on the fingers of one hand. I can count my blood relations
with my left thumb. Emily Moore might be another one. It would be sort of worth
it if we could find her, wouldn’t it?’

Naomi sniffed. ‘You said John Moore wasn’t a very nice
person so Emily might not be either. You could find her yourself and if she was
nice I could go and see her too. All this driving about looking for her is so
incredibly mega-dull.’

‘I know,’ said Nina helplessly. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I
promise.’

‘That doesn’t help now.’ Naomi turned away theatrically and
retreated into her ipod, staring out of the side window.

Nina glanced at Sam and hid a smile at the apprehensive
expression on his face. He obviously wasn’t used to sharing car-space with
sparring mothers and daughters. Not that she often sparred with Naomi… Mind
you, puberty wasn’t a million miles away and they would know all about
theatricals then. Sam raised his eyebrows at her when they stopped at traffic
lights and she winked the eye Naomi couldn’t see.

Long Meadow Lane was a quiet, leafy little place, with tall
trees and bushes bordering the lane on both sides. Nina sat looking from right
to left as they crept along in search of number fifteen. The houses were large
and almost hidden behind the greenery; it seemed rather an affluent little
area. Nina sighed. Her own branch of the Moore family lived in less well-to-do
accommodation. Claire left the riches behind when she left John Moore all those
years ago…

If only they knew what had gone on in her mother’s mind back
then. What a heavy burden Claire had carried all those years, if she’d known
about the paedophilia.
Had
she known? Why hadn’t
Claire divorced John Moore and agitated for child support, alimony, whatever,
instead of lying about his death? That lie meant John Moore had never supported
his own family. It didn’t seem right.

Nina shivered. It was so true, there were things that no
amount of money could buy. As soon as this thought came into her head she
realised something else. Claire had made so very sure the break was absolute,
never demanding the support that was hers by right – so the odds were she
had
known about the paedophilia. Bloody hell. What a
terrible hold John Moore must have had over Claire to buy her silence all those
years. Not knowing what had gone on between the pair of them was turning into
the worst aspect about the entire business, and it was hard to see how they’d
ever find out. So as well as finding a father she didn’t want, she’d lost the
mother she thought she’d known…

Number fifteen was near the top of the lane, and Sam pulled
up at the gateway. A long, rhododendron-lined driveway led down to the house, a
low bungalow with an obvious garage conversion at the side. It was freshly
painted in crisp white and had a swing set on the front lawn.

Leaving Sam and Naomi in the car, Nina went to ring the
bell. The front room window had no net curtain, and she looked in on a large
collection of cacti and an orange cat sleeping in the middle of them. No one
was home, however, and she turned back to the lane.

‘I’ll try the neighbours,’ she said, leaning in the
passenger seat window.

Naomi gave another theatrical sigh, and Nina handed over her
mobile. ‘Naomi. We’ll have a look round here first and then go for lunch. Why
don’t you use the time to find us a nice restaurant or pub in the village?’